


i bury my heart (i hope it's a seed, i hope it works)

by 1031



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Magical Realism, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 12:57:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19273795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1031/pseuds/1031
Summary: as always, thank you toKarafor the reading and the re-reading and probably the re-re-reading.





	i bury my heart (i hope it's a seed, i hope it works)

**Author's Note:**

> as always, thank you to  Kara  for the reading and the re-reading and probably the re-re-reading.

**-I**

There’s a florist shop, right around the block from David’s gallery—small, unassuming, but something about it seems to glow, seems to call out to him, the bright white door nothing but inviting— he can almost hear how the tinkling bell would welcome him in. 

It’s been a long time since he’s felt like he’d be welcome anywhere really, so he stays on the other side of the street and settles for basking in the possibilities. 

 

**I**

He walks by the shop every day for weeks, coming closer each day to reaching out and turning the handle, until one day a sudden rainstorm has him ducking under the now familiar awning; he hesitates still—the relentless pounding behind him more familiar, easier to navigate than the calm that radiates from the shop. 

Before he can make up his mind, the door swings open behind him and he can’t resist its pull any longer; the shop is small and bursting with life—flowers and greenery of all different sizes and colors sit on every available surface, they hang from the ceiling and crowd around the windows. It should feel cluttered, he should feel claustrophobic, but it doesn’t— he doesn’t. It just feels good. 

“Looking for something in particular?”

David jumps, spinning around to face the new voice, holding his hands out preemptively. “Oh, no, I’m not. Not a plant person.”

His words are met with a small smile. “C’mon, I bet you’d surprise yourself. We can start you off easy, give you something that takes a lot to kill.”

David eyes him for a second, then picks up a small plant from the display next to them and holds it, cups it in his palms and waits. The seconds tick by until slowly, gradually, the vibrant green of the leaves lose their luster, become shriveled, and start to droop downwards, as if pulled by invisible strings. 

“Oh,” says the man softly, reaching out to take it from him and they both watch as the color begins to immediately brighten, the leaves stirring and reaching up, standing even straighter than before. Of course, David thinks, of course he can heal and grow and nurture. Of course those hands can make things grow—make things come alive and bloom. It suits him, he thinks. 

There are good things in this world, David knows. He’s just not one of them. 

“Here,” the man says, “take this guy home.” He pushes the small plant back into his hands, gently urging David’s fingers to curl around the fragile pot and take hold, “Careful with the water, make sure he has enough light, and don’t worry, he’s resilient.”

Don’t worry, David thought, funny how easy that was to say, how easy it was to think, and he huffs out a laugh that sounds a bit broken even to his own ears. “Worrying’s part of my nature at this point, I think.”

The man gives him that same small grin, something secretive—something special sitting just underneath, and ushers him back through the door. “It’s just about finding the right balance. Come back, okay? Let me know how it’s going.”

David blinks at the sudden rush of sunlight, the rainstorm having disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. “Oh. Okay, uh, thanks?” 

“Patrick.” The man fully smiles then, before closing the door and giving a little wave, and David’s suddenly right there, feeling everything perfectly: the warmth of the sun, the smell of the flowers outside the shop, the texture of the pot in his hands, the weight of the smile from the other man—from Patrick. 

 

**II**

It’s universal—some can heal, others burn, some can charm or persuade or cleanse, David though, David degrades. He’s not the only one, he knows that, there are only so many powers in the world; but people always find out and always avoid his hands, his touch— avoid him, as if waiting for the inevitable hurt. 

Some theories say that abilities run in families, some say that you can tell how well suited people are for each other on how well matched their skills are. 

David doesn’t know what’s true, but he can’t help but wonder who’s out there for him, if this is what he has to offer. 

 

**III**

David finds himself looking up all the ways to take care of his new plant, an Aloe Vera, he soon learns, and tries his hardest to ignore they ways in which he can kill it.

“Balance, balance, balance,” he finds himself whispering, carefully marking down the days he waters it, “it’s all about balance.”

 

**IV**

David’s mom never held his hand when he was a kid, never brushed his hair back from his forehead when he was sick, never gave him a hug when he came home crying— she couldn’t, too afraid of what she could do, what her mother could do, what she vowed to never do. 

His dad though, he tried to make up for it and David, David tried to lean into it, tried to make it be enough. Once, after one of their Christmas parties, as his mother waved and wavered her way up the stairs, when his dad thought he had already disappeared, he stood and watched the immaculate Johnny Rose shake out his hands, staring down at them as if willing them to do anything at all and, god, David wished that was him, wished his hands were useless in the eyes of society instead of a blight. But he’d stopped putting that on his Christmas list many years ago, and his dad’s touch started to hurt too, no matter how gentle. 

He goes months without seeing his sister, his little sister, and he’d never say it aloud, but he misses her with an almost tangible ache: on his worst days her hands, hands that have frozen their way out of handcuffs and sticky situations— her cool hands on his neck are the only thing that can bring him back down to earth, back to reality, back to the truth. 

He’s not sure where, or who, he’d be without them. 

 

**V**

David finds himself ducking into the shop two weeks later, then again two weeks after that. He wishes he could explain it, wishes he understood why it draws him in, beckons to him, makes him feel safe and secure in a world that normally went out of its way to do the opposite. 

Each time, Patrick greets him with a smile and as they talk, as the visits become more frequent, lasting longer and longer each time, he finds himself falling farther and farther. Patrick touches the back of his hand, fingers gentle and lingering, seemingly unafraid of David, of what could be. 

“You know you don’t have to,” he feels his face start to flush, a pressure in his chest that’s been building over the past few weeks, “don’t have to touch me.”

“David, you’re not alone in this you know,” he pauses, looking at David as if begging him to understand, “people don’t…I can be overwhelming for some people I think.”

“I don’t.” David stops, takes a step back, a deep breath, tries again: “It feels like too much,” he glances up, sees Patrick’s eyes, wide and questioning and fearful and knows, with the most certainty he’s ever felt, that this is it, this is the moment where the truth matters more than anything and knows that he owes Patrick this much—owes it to himself, to be as honest as he’s ever been, “it feels like too much, like so much, but it just feels like you.”

Patrick steps forward, pulled closer by something he can’t quite explain, not yet, moves to wrap his hands around David’s arms, stops just shy of making contact, waits until he’s sure of his welcome. “I just feel you too, David.”

And David rears back, shaking his head, a sharp movement matched only by the sharp downward turn of his mouth. “That’s not okay, I’m not.” His hands are fists at his sides, his shoulders a long line of tension, eyes closed like every instinct is telling him to run or to fight and it can’t decide which is safer. “I’m not okay, what I can make people feel is not okay and I won’t put that on you.”

“But don’t you see,” Patrick says, reaching out to cup his face again, and David lets him, wants to sob at the touch—at the feeling of hope blossoming in his chest—"don’t you see,” he says, and his smile is like honey, slow and sweet: “it’s just about finding the right balance.”

And he’s grown, he thinks, as he leans into Patrick’s touch, over the past weeks and months and minutes and days, during his visits to the store and his conversations with Patrick—as he’s taken care of his not one, but the three plants that sit on his windowsill— grown through stilted talks with his parents and hugs with his sister. He’s come to realize that his hands are capable of so much more than he’d ever thought, and maybe, just maybe: so is he. 

 

**+I**

They have a garden now, a lush patch of earth that David designed and Patrick tends to and whenever David walks by, and curls himself around a broad back, the leaves don’t shy away from him, but rather, turn towards them like they’re the sun and David, well, David closes his eyes, feels the brush of petals on his skin and breathes.


End file.
